


Upon the Midnight Clear

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Community: smutty_claus, Draco Malfoy - character, F/M, Hermione Granger - character, Post-War, epilogue compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the war, things have changed. Hermione meets Draco at a Christmas party and goes home with him to make a little music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon the Midnight Clear

It's the Christmas season, and that means another round of parties, of flats and houses packed too full of too many people wearing too many layers. Jumpers over turtlenecks over shirts over thermals and everyone's too warm in a small space, foreheads beading up with sweat and feet drowning in fur-lined boots. Coats and scarves and gloves piled on sofas and beds, hats and caps and tuques and toboggans jumbled together in a disarray of bright yarn and cheery bobbles. Evergreen boughs hanging on the walls and dropping needles into drinks. Paper chains lining windows and wrapped around trees. Tinsel in silver and gold, glass balls covered in paste and glitter, reflecting faces of people holding cups of eggnog, their bulging smiles and convex eyes turned to grimaces of people desperate to have a good time with people they see every day and loathe eleven months out of twelve.

_God rest ye merry hippogriffs_, blasting from the wireless, adds to the cacophony of holiday songs that sank into my brain in November, and still is barely audible over strident, frenetic laughter. Candles flickering on every table and in every sconce, puddles of wax solidifying in clumps that will take multiple Scouring charms to remove. Cake and biscuit crumbs ground into the carpet next to the dirt trail of a kicked-over poinsettia. Torn ribbons, shredded paper, and my ex-husband's new girlfriend wearing bows in her hair and pretending they make her prettier when all that really accomplishes _that_ is the gallon of rum he smelled of the night he told me he was leaving.

I pour the last of my eggnog down the sink - too much egg, not enough nog - and duck out the back door to cool off in the night. My breath puffs, little silver clouds escaping into the sky to run away with the stars, and I envy it because it can do whatever it wants. Can be anywhere it pleases. "Lucky bastard," I mutter, and slap my hands together before tucking them into my armpits.

A snort from the shadows of a tall, brown-needled bush by the corner of the house startles me into whipping around. Dark shadows, dark cloak, hair as bright as a full moon. "You always talk to yourself?" He steps out of the shadow and comes toward me, boots crunching through and cloak sweeping over the icy crust on the snow.

"You always lurk in the dark?" He raises an eyebrow and I laugh, bitter and humorless at memories of the boy who used to be the man in front of me. "Right. Forgot. What are you doing here? Didn't think this was your crowd."

"It's not." He runs his hand through his hair - long fingers, bony knuckles, and no ring. The last time I saw him, four years before at Pansy Parkinson's wedding, there'd been a gold band on his finger. Now, there was just a thin line paler than the pale skin around it. "My solicitor's impossible to catch. He was here, but I missed him. Slipped out with some blonde from Games and Sports."

It seems like he's giving up a lot of information, but when I examine it closely, it's obvious he's said nothing but bare fact, easy to verify and empty of meaning. "Odd time to be looking for your solicitor." I wonder if his hand feels as naked without the weight of its ring as mine does. I stare at it, at his bare finger. "So what happened? Perfect pure-blood pair not work out like you planned?"

I think the alliteration was a bit much and maybe my eggnog had more nog in it than I'd suspected, but he doesn't seem to notice. He draws his hand into his cloak and when he speaks, his voice is flat, almost squashed. "Irreconcilable differences. She couldn't reconcile our marriage with rocks thrown through our windows and the hedges lit on fire every few months."

I'm about to say that it must be just _horrible_, the bully turned bullee, then he keeps going and every ounce of sarcasm leaves me when his voice turns sad. "She left. Two years ago. She took my son, and she left."

I remember the pride that had nearly dripped off the gold lettering - real gold, painted on thick parchment so soft it was like holding feathers - on the cards Draco had sent out when Scorpius was born. Delivered by house-elf hand, every announcement had crowed over the arrival of his son and heir. Everyone got one. Even me. Even _Harry_. I sent a rattle over Ron's protests that we didn't need to be wasting money on a ferret's spawn, but I remembered how desperate Draco and his parents had been to save each other during the war, and I figured anyone that protective of his family, and that proud over his son, couldn't be all bad. Evidence that he had emotions, at least.

It's that emotion that sobers me a little as he turns away. I jump forward and snatch at his cloak to keep him from leaving without another word. "Hey. _Wait_. Draco." I grasp his arm under his cloak and it's not until he jerks away from my fingers that I realize it's his left. "Sorry. Look, I-I. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. About-about your son. About Scorpius."

He looks at me as if I'd spoken Mermish, his right hand rubbing at his left sleeve. I don't know what he sees in my eyes or my cold-flushed cheeks, but he nods, just once. "Thank you." He smiles and even though it's tight and his lips are thin, it makes him look approachable, almost attractive. "Is this where I ask about your ring?"

I look down at my hands, fingers spread wide and white with cold. "We drifted apart. Turns out that when we weren't chasing Harry around and busy with saving the world, we didn't actually have much in common." I shrug and wrap my arms around myself, jog in place for a few seconds to warm my blood, look up at the sky to keep him from seeing my eyes. _Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining_. "Ron wanted to be famous. I wanted to be normal."

Draco laughs, quietly, but it's a real laugh, not one of those cruel humors he was so fond of back in school. "I don't think anyone in our generation gets to be normal. Maybe Scorpius." He nods at me. "Hugo and Rose, perhaps. They could be normal."

I don't know whether to be more surprised that he knows the names of my children, or that he steps closer and takes his cloak off. I must give him an odd look, because he holds it out and shakes it. "You're cold," he says, and I realize that he's noticed me trembling. I turn and let him settle it around my shoulders. There must be a charm on the fabric, because no cloak should be that warm on its own, and I don't want to acknowledge that it's his body heat soaked into the wool. That makes me think of his smile and his laugh and his eyes that gleam like silver stars.

I tug the cloak closed over my chest. Draco stands there in shirt-sleeves - long, I notice, and fastened tight at his wrists - and doesn't look like he's shivering. I stare at his hands, bare even in the chill, and I wonder if all those years spent sleeping in the dungeons at Hogwarts means he's immune to the cold. "Maybe they can be normal," I say, returning to the thread of the previous conversation and trying not to take surreptitious sniffs of his cloak. Apples and cinnamon. It doesn't seem like the kind of scent that a snake should wear. "Maybe. It would be nice if we could as well."

"I think that's asking a bit much." The door opens and laughter pours out of it along with light. Draco turns his back, but it's too late. He's too recognizable, his white-blond hair shining. Footsteps crunch across the snow and I turn around to see my ex-husband standing there with his hands curled loosely at his sides.

"Hermione. Luna said she thought she saw you come out here. Wanted to say good night before I went home." Ron talks to me, but his eyes are on Draco.

I laugh. Wanted to say good night. That's a rich one. He wants to check up on me. We haven't been married for over a year, and he still thinks he has some sort of right to know where I am. He claims he's just being friendly, but I think he's waiting for me to come back. Funny, since he's the one who left. "Fine, then," I tell him, pulling Draco's cloak tighter. "You said it. Have fun with your girlfriend."

"You okay?" he asks, ignoring me, still staring at Draco. "Nobody bothering you?"

He's puffing up like a dog trying to look bigger than he actually is, which gives me the giggles because he has at least four inches and two stone on Malfoy. Seems like the eggnog is still doing its duty, because I can't stop thinking this situation is hilarious. Me, wrapped up in Draco's cloak. Ron, looking like he wants to rip the point off Draco's nose. Draco, silent and waiting.

Someone needs to break the tension. I decide it's going to be me. The eggnog decides what I'm going to do. I step back and to the left, and I move in front of Draco. I lean back against his chest, feel his breath stop when I touch him. "I'm good, Ron," I say, looking at blue eyes. I turn my head and look up at grey. "I'm better than good."

Draco raises an eyebrow but his expression doesn't change. His posture does. He slips one arm around my waist, his hand spreads over my stomach, and he dips his head to rub his chin in my hair. "You certainly are," he says, and his voice is even warmer than his cloak. If he ever spoke that way to his wife, she was a madwoman to leave him. I think my nipples are hard, and I can't blame it on the cold. It's his voice. It spreads over me like honey, slow and golden sweet, and it starts something low in my gut to spinning.

I look back to Ron, expecting him to shout or snarl or go off on one of his tirades, but all he does is tighten his jaw. "I don't believe you," he says, and walks back into the house. Draco releases me, and I follow without thinking, wondering if Ron's gone in for reinforcements.

In the kitchen, Luna catches me, and she has a sprig of mistletoe tucked over her ear. "Draco," she says brightly, looking past me. "I just heard. I think it's wonderful. Interhouse unity!" Her wand swishes through the air and the mistletoe bounces to the ceiling, twisting over my head. "Give us a kiss!" she says, and bounds on her toes like it's Christmas. Which it is, but she doesn't need to seem so happy.

Ron's leaning in the doorway, a thin eggnog mustache over his upper lip. "Yeah." He looks at me and shrugs one shoulder, his smile missing any humor. "Give us a kiss. Show us what Malfoy's made of." _O'er hill and dale, telling their tale_.

I can hear Draco breathing close behind me, and it makes me realize that I'm holding my own breath. I turn around to put a hand on his chest, about to tell him that he can go and I'll clear up this mess, then he cups my face in both hands and leans in. His fingers slip through my hair to cradle the back of my skull, and he kisses me. I clutch at his shirt, crushing the delicate fabric over his heart. His lips are much more full than they look, and they're soft as they move on mine. He focuses on my lower lip, sucks at it with moderate pressure, and it's not until I feel the tip of his tongue brush mine that I discover I've opened my mouth to let him in.

I hear Luna cheering and I realize I've been kissing Draco Malfoy for a full minute. He's pulled me against him and his heart is racing under my hand. His arms are around my waist, under his cloak, and his hands are fisted in the small of my back, my dress pulled tight to my body. When he raises his head, his eyes are glazed, and I can't take my eyes off his mouth.

Luna's applauding and Ron's stormed off, his cup abandoned on the counter, but I only notice it all as background, something in the distance and forgotten. All my focus is on Draco. "The kids are with Molly," I whisper, and he nods, understanding and agreeing to the question I didn't ask. He takes my hand, and we move. _If you really hold me tight, all the way home I'll be warm_.

Floo or Apparition, I don't know. I don't care. We end up at Draco's house, and after he mutters a charm that lights candles around the room and a fire in the hearth, he pushes his cloak off my shoulders. I grasp his wrists and hold his hands still, checking myself over before I let him go any further. The eggnog isn't making the decisions anymore, and I relax my grip. There's no question of should or shouldn't, just a question of how long it'll take us to get up to the bedroom. His hands rest loose on my shoulders, and my hands go to the collar of his shirt.

The first button exposes the hollow between his collarbones, and I rise up on my toes to kiss it. His skin is warm under my lips, and I feel his Adam's apple move against my cheek when he swallows. The second button frees the top of his sternum and I kiss that as well. I move for the third button and he grips my arm, fingers moving on my wrist. "Scars," he murmurs, with a shake of his head, and I tip up to kiss his jaw.

"Me too," I tell him. With my free hand, I pull down the collar of my dress to show a bit of my chest, to show him the top of the long scar left by Dolohov's curse. He touches it, trails his fingers down the length until he's stopped by my dress, and he takes a deep breath. A few minutes later, his shirt is on the floor, and I'm kissing the scars that criss-cross his thin chest. Harry did this to him, and I apologize for it with every silent kiss. To reach the lowest one, I sink to my knees, and Draco rests one hand on my shoulder as my mouth travels across his sharp and angular hips. "We all have scars, Draco."

I take his hand and turn it, exposing his forearm and the twisted scar burned into it. The snake and skull are faded, nearly the same color as his skin, but still there. I kiss it.

His fingers tense around mine, the muscles in his arm tighten until they feel like stone, but he doesn't move otherwise. He lets me kiss the remnants of his mark, lets me trace my tongue around the edges. I take my time, explore every inch of it, until I've covered his past with my lips. When I get to my feet, he thanks me, voice so soft I almost miss the words, then he tips my chin up and kisses me again.

His hands roam my back, finding the zip of my dress, and he pulls it down slow. Slow enough that I can imagine I hear it separating, and my breath catches when his fingers slip into the opening to trail up my spine. He makes a quiet sound of surprise when his touch makes it to my shoulder blades without running over the band of a bra, and I smile into his kiss. "Don't need it," I murmur, and press my lips to the point of his chin.

He pulls my dress off my shoulders, pushes it down my arms, and cradles my breasts in his palms as I shimmy the dress off my hips. Long fingers cover me completely, then he brushes his thumbs over my nipples. I can't help myself - I whimper as I feel my body respond. His hands are callused from broom gripping, cauldron stirring, something, some sort of hard-working activity unexpected from the man everyone thought was a spoiled little prince, and the texture of those calluses rubbing over my nipples makes them tighten. I want a different texture, want to feel his tongue on them, and I tug at his hair in a wordless order.

"Patience," he says, and that golden, honeyed warmth pours over me again, stirring my blood. From the feel of him against my stomach, I think we're not going to make it to the bedroom, and he proves me right a second later when he pulls me across the room to a sofa with thick upholstery and carved, elaborate legs. Draco sinks into it and tugs me between his knees.

His hands explore my body, moving across my hips and the rounded curve of my stomach. I think he might say something about the narrow stretch marks left from childbirth, but he doesn't appear to notice. He's focused on the bands of my stockings, toying with them as his brows furrow. He glances up to me and I giggle at the bewilderment in his eyes. "Sticking charms. Can't get elastic to stay up."

"Ah." That's all he says, and he slips his hands up the outside of my thighs to tug at my knickers.

I kick off my shoes, wriggle out of the damp knickers, and let him see me in full. There's a bit of awe in his eyes, and it's gratifying. "Show you mine if you show me yours?"

He chuckles, his hand rubbing at his groin. "That's the plan. But, er. Are you on something?"

At first, I think he's talking about the eggnog, then I think he's asking if I do drugs. It takes me a minute to realize he's asking about protection, and I nod. "The pill. It's Muggle. I'm covered." I doubt he's familiar with condoms, and I didn't have one with me anyway, since I'd left my bag back at the party. I'm glad he asked, though. One of us needed to, and I couldn't concentrate enough to remember.

He looks relieved at my reassurance, even if it's tempered with a little wariness. It's up to him if he wants to trust Muggle birth control, trust _me_, and I wait for him to reach a decision. It doesn't take long. He reaches for me, pulls me into his lap to straddle his thighs. I go to undo his zip and he takes my hands, then puts them on his shoulders. "Patience," he says again, and the purr in his voice makes me wetter.

His fingers are long, and he knows what to do with them. He cups me, slips one into me, and manages to brush across my G-spot with hardly any need to probe and explore. Ron couldn't find it without ten minutes of direction, and Draco has me writhing on his lap within two. I clutch at his shoulders and make some sort of guttural noise that amuses him far too much, because he gives the dirtiest laugh I've ever heard and presses his free hand against my back.

I lean forward in response and he fastens his mouth on my breast. His tongue flicks and circles, his hand twists and thrusts, and it only takes him one, two, three rubs over my clit before I'm coming. I grip his shoulders so hard that my fingers start to hurt and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from shrieking. _Sing in exultation_.

If I'd have ever laid bets about Draco's ability to please anyone except himself, I'd have lost a fortune right then. He keeps going, keeps touching me, his fingers working inside me, his tongue licking at my nipple, until I loosen my grip on his shoulders and tug at his hair. "_Stop_, please. God, stop. Sensitive."

He releases my breast, apologizes quietly, and draws his hand from my body. I have to stifle a moan when he licks his fingers, his pale, almost translucent lashes fluttering as he sucks my taste off his knuckles. I take his hand and copy his actions, drawing his index finger deep into my mouth. His eyes, this close, look like granite, heavy with desire and filled with dark specks in the grey, and his heart pounds beneath my hand as I let his finger slip from my mouth. My hands drop to his zip, press down to outline the shape of him beneath the fabric, and he makes a sound that's barely human.

I have to stand for him to get his trousers off, and my knees want to buckle once I'm upright. My body is still responding, still quivering and pulsing inside, and I know it's because I want to feel him in me. He strips with a speed that would make me laugh if I wasn't already reaching for him, then the next minute or two is a confused mess of limbs and positioning and apologies as I poke his ribs and he leans on my hair.

We're not long-term lovers who know how the other is going to move without having to think, not two people who know each other well enough to be able to adjust without a little quiet discussion and even quieter, slightly embarrassed giggles, but eventually we manage to settle into place. I end up on my back, my head resting on a small, decorative pillow, with one foot on the floor and the other over the back of the sofa. Draco's hips are sharp against my thighs, then he moves up to kiss me and he guides his length into me, and it's impossible for me to notice anything except how warm and solid he is inside me.

I expected a shag, or a fuck, or even just regular, nondescript _sex_, but he surprises me again. It's as though in this moment, he's open and unguarded, his emotions as naked as his body, and he's tender enough that I would almost call it making love. He takes his time, glides in and slides out in motions so slow that any jokes I might have made about a Seeker's speed are pushed right out of my mind. He's like ocean waves, so steady in his thrusts that I'm floating within moments. Either there's a small curve in his shaft or he's managed to angle me just right, because he's rubbing against my G-spot again, and if he doesn't stop, I know I'll hit a second orgasm.

He doesn't stop. He keeps to that steady rhythm and he kisses me. His tongue slips along the curve of my mouth, his lips work down the column of my throat. Under my hands his hair is damp with sweat and his shoulders are tense with effort. I get the impression that he's waiting for me to come again, that he's deliberately holding back, and I give him a hand.

I give myself a hand, actually. I reach between us and push my middle finger through wet curls to circle my clit, and his next exhale sounds like a moan. Draco's back is bowed, his lips pressed to the pulse in my throat. It doesn't take me long to reach my second orgasm, and this time I turn my face into his hair and gasp his name against the shell of his ear. He groans as I slide my hands around his waist, and as I reach down to press my nails into his buttocks, he moves faster, deeper.

When he comes, it's with a shudder that runs through his entire body, every muscle tensing until he feels like a sun-warmed statue in my arms. He relaxes, all at once, and subsides onto me with a quiet sound that's so full of exhaustion it makes me smile. I stroke his hair back from his forehead and rub his nape, letting him recover. It's an oddly comfortable feeling, his body stretched over mine, with the scent of apples, cinnamon, and sex all around us. It shouldn't be, but it is. He's comfortable. Comforting. It somehow feels right that I'm there with him. It feels natural, feels....

Normal.

He murmurs something unintelligible in that honey-gold voice, and he nuzzles into my throat. He starts to push off me and I press on his shoulders to hold him, shush him. "Later," I tell him. "Talk later. Rest now."

I let him drift into sleep as I wonder if I should be blaming Luna's mistletoe for this, or if I should be thanking her. I decide it's something I can worry about in the morning. His hand settles over my heart as he dozes, and I set mine over his. There's no eggnog and mistletoe now, but I kiss the top of his head and slip my leg off the back of the sofa to wrap around him. _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_. I'll have to teach him that one.


End file.
